


Full Dress

by CatalpaWaltz



Series: Want For Nothing [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Let Ben Tallmadge Say 'Fuck' 2016, M/M, Modern AU, Uniform Kink, Want For Nothing!verse, not gonna lie, this gets a little meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7258819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalpaWaltz/pseuds/CatalpaWaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The costumes were not, in themselves, supposed to be a surprise. Ben had made the suggestion ("Continental uniforms! I can use them in class, two birds with one stone,") and George had assumed that he would be picking something up from Party City or Amazon, something tacky and cheap. </p><p>What he does not expect is the truly exquisite piece of workmanship Ben leaves out for him to try on the night before the John S. Martinez Elementary Annual Halloween Carnival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Dress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nimravidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/gifts).



> For Nim, on the occasion of your birthday (*whale emoji*)
> 
> For reference, this takes place well after all of the events of Another Uninnocent, Elegant Fall.

_ “I had a dream about you last week. It was October 31, 2002 and we met at a Halloween party. You came dressed as yourself; I knew you’ve been hiding your true self all this time.”  _

_ ―  **Rodney Jenkins** _

* * *

The costumes were not, in themselves, supposed to be a surprise. Ben had made the suggestion ( _ "Continental uniforms! I can use them in class, two birds with one stone,") _ and George had assumed that he would be picking something up from Party City or Amazon, something tacky and cheap.

What he does not expect is the truly exquisite piece of workmanship Ben leaves out for him to "try on" the night before the John S. Martinez Elementary Annual Halloween Carnival.

Ben slips into the bathroom when George is in the shower.

"Don't mind me! Just gonna hang this up for you. Let me know how you like it."

George thinks nothing of it, his mind already running through a list of things that must be accomplished in the office the next day, but when he steps out of the shower, he almost drops his towel in surprise at what he sees.

He dries himself faster than he ever has in his life, and hurries to get into the ensemble. Then he looks at himself.

The coat is of solid, navy-blue wool felt, with fawn-colored facings and unadorned, hammered brass buttons. The waistcoat is of broadcloth, the same color as the facings of the jacket, and curiously well-fitted. The breeches look odd, but not unflattering. He flexes his socked feet, still wondering about a pair of boots for the carnival, to complete the ensemble.

All the details are perfect. The shirt is light, fine linen. The neckcloth, the same. He ties it with what he vaguely remembers to be an appropriate knot (though there had been days, during his Williamsburg summers, when he had forgone the cravat all together in the interests of keeping cool.) But he winds it around his throat tonight, noticing the way it changes his silhouette, the way it makes him hold his head up higher.

The sash over his shoulder might actually be made of real silk, the blue fabric rippling pleasantly in the glow from the recessed lights. It feels like silk, under his fingers.Two finely-fringed epaulettes, which move with a weight that suggest real gold thread, adorn his shoulders, making them appear even wider than they are. The rank they indicate does not escape him, and he chuckles at Ben's choice (even as his heart swells a little at the thought of his boy's regard for him, that he should find such a high ranking role to be appropriate.) There's no hat, but George always thought he looked silly in those dowdy tricornes anyway. There is a cloak too, of deepest indigo, that he throws on last.

It's uncanny, really, how well he seems to fit into the strange confines of the outfit. It changes his bearing, makes him stand up straighter, square his shoulders. He kind of wants to take a turn around the apartment with it on.

But when George goes into the living room, he's met with an unexpected sight.

If he'd thought the outfit suited  _ him _ , he has nothing on Ben, who stands in the center of the lamplit room like he stepped straight out of another time. The light from the street lamps glints like candle-flame off his buttons, the gold thread in his epaulette.

He wants to ask where the costumes came from, why they're so well-made, but Ben looks...not quite himself. The way he's standing, the way he lowers his gaze a fraction when George steps into view.

And then he speaks, and one word, accompanied as it is by a deferential bow of his head, is all it takes to tell George what is going on, what Ben wants.

"Sir."

George freezes. They had discussed, in very broad strokes, their willingness to try something like this. It had taken nearly two bottles of wine between them, but Ben had admitted that there might be...certain situations, in which he was open to a little acting in the bedroom, so long as he was the one to initiate things. That had been months ago, and honestly he had not really expected anything to come of it.

But here Ben is, standing at attention in crisp, full officer's uniform. And he might change his mind, he might decide this isn't for them after all, and they'll have a good laugh about it over dinner. George is perfectly prepared for that to happen, knows it's probably the most likely outcome, but in the meantime, he  _ wants _ .

Ben's tongue darts out to wet his lips, just a flash of pink in the dim room, and George decides to commit to the moment.

"Major," he says, testing the waters.

"Is there anything I might do for you, sir?" Ben asks, and George tilts his head to one side, considering.

"If you would," he says, "keep very, very still."

Ben does, only moving enough to yield beautifully to the kiss George presses to his lips. When George pulls away, Ben's expression is eloquent: brow furrowed, bottom lip between his teeth ( _ Is this alright? Do we want to do this? _ ) George smiles back, just the barest twitch of the lips. Ben moves to pluck at his (accurately knotted) neckcloth, but George stays his hand.

"Did I say you could move, Major?"

And there's no real steel in it, but he needs to know their boundaries now, when the consequences for coming up against them are less dire.

But Ben just bites his lip a little harder, his cheeks starting to flush, just a little. He doesn't answer until George raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him, urging him to speak.

"No, sir. You did not."

"Then you will remain in this attitude until I tell you otherwise."

A shudder goes through Ben at this (George's voice a little firmer, a little harsher) but he snaps back into stillness.

"Yes, sir."

George's hands go to his jacket, pushing the heavy wool slowly off Ben's shoulders. Ben almost looks like he's going to move to assist, before George squeezes his upper arm abruptly, and that puts paid to it.

But then George changes his mind. He rather likes Ben in this outfit too much to get him all the way out of it, at least for now. They will see what they can do  _ in _ their clothes.

"Hold out your hand, Major."

Ben serves him a questioning look for a moment, but doesn't really hesitate before following the order.

George holds Ben's right hand in both his own, taking his time to appreciate this part of Ben he loves so much. He examines the long, strong fingers, not precisely delicate, but...elegant. He traces over the lines of his palm, the callous at the tip of his middle finger from all the writing he does, the scars on his knuckles from years of brawls between brothers, and later, as a young man full of confusion and with little in the way of a healthy outlet for his anger. He's gotten pale again, with the coming of fall, the freckles of summer that had been scattered across his wrist and the back of his hand starting to fade away. But they're the loveliest hands George is sure he's ever seen.

He presses the palm to his lips, then turns it over so he can place a kiss to each scarred knuckle and the tip of each finger. Ben's breathing had already gone ragged even before George drew middle and forefinger into his mouth, but he has to choke down a noise like a sob when he gives one hard  _ suck. _

_ "Jesus _ , George," he gasps. And George pulls back at once.

"Language, Major."

"Apologies, sir," says Ben, but he's still smirking. It's a very kissable smirk. George sees no reason to resist the temptation.

Ben pulls away after a little while.

"So I have a dilemma, sir, which I believe you might be  _ equipped _ to solve for me." George purses his lips at the obvious, shameless innuendo, but lets this one go (vowing, to himself, not to let any further insolence go unpunished.)

"And what might that be?"

"Well, I'd very much like you to fuck me, sir. But I know how much emphasis you place on proper dress, and I do not wish to spoil our uniforms."

George hums, thinking how to answer, trying not to be distracted by the way Ben's hands press insistently at the bulge in his breeches.

"That is quite a conundrum," he says, past the point of caring how breathless he sounds. Any time Ben is so unabashedly brazen, so unapologetically filthy in asking what he wants, it always takes George's breath away. Even after years.

He has some idea of what might be an acceptable solution to such a problem, but he's...unsure of how to ask for it, unsure if it pushes the bounds of their little game too far. But Ben is pressed so close, his expression so open and trusting. And George knows he has no reason to fear. That if it's not something that appeals to him, Ben will simply say to.

"There might be an acceptable compromise. On your knees, Major."

Ben is there almost before George finishes giving the order, landing on the living room rug with a sharp thunk that would make George worry if Ben's knees weren't those of a twenty-five-year old. He shuffles forward, inch by inch, and lets his hands rest on the backs of George's thighs, holding himself up, pulling George closer.

Ben lets on hand drift down, his fingers questing for the hem of George's breeches. He slips one finger underneath the fabric, ghosting over the sensitive skin of the back of his knee. Then he leans down further, presses a kiss to the swell of George's calf.

"No teasing, Major," George chokes out. "Get about your business."

Ben's "yessir" sounds perfectly sincere, but he doesn't seem to have any inclination to do as he's told. He presses his mouth to the broadcloth, and the suggestion of wet warmth George can feel through the fabric, the faintest echo of the real thing, is almost enough to make him beat a full retreat, to say to hell with the uniforms, and to take Ben right there on the carpet. But Ben knows him too well.

"We have nothing but time, sir. There is no reason to hurry."

So George balls his hands into fists at his side, grits his teeth, and bears it.

Ben has never gone so slow before, and if George didn't know him so well, he could almost think that it was the product of doubt, of unwillingness. But he knows better; he knows Ben is wringing every last ounce of satisfaction from this moment, congratulating himself on such a total victory.

When Ben finally,  _ finally _ slips the last button on his breeches and pulls them down far enough to begin his work in earnest, George is more strung out than he's ever been, more far gone than he's ever been, while still wearing so many clothes.

His hand drops to the top of Ben's head, and he has his fingers threaded and twisted through the honey-brown strands before he even knows what he's doing. At the sound Ben makes, the ragged bitten-off gasp, he comes to his senses, and withdraws.

"Sorry, I'm--"

"Don't you  _ fucking _ stop," groans Ben, reaching up and yanking George's hand back into place. He angles George's wrist until he's cupping the back of Ben's skull, and when George gives an experimental tug, the response he gets is more than encouraging.

Ben is still pressing chaste kisses up and down his shaft when he pulls away.

"Tell me what you like, sir. I wish to -- to know how best to serve you. Please."

He says that last word so quietly that George almost doesn't hear him, but the hand he has in Ben's hair relaxes just a fraction, its grip soothing, rather than demanding.

"Of course, my dear boy," he says, and,  _ wow _ , but that does something to Ben (and to George too, if he admits it to himself.) George takes another bite at the apple. "My darling boy." Ben  _ moans _ , already opening his mouth to take in the head of George's cock.

And it isn't as though Ben doesn't normally enjoy giving head, doesn't do it exceedingly well (though George probably enjoys giving slightly more.) But there is something about the utter abandon with which Ben ministers to him, the unselfconscious ardor with which he applies his skill and concentration, that George cannot remember experiencing before. George eggs him on, with fairly shameless language that he usually hesitates to use, for fear of recalling less-pleasant past experiences too closely. But if anything, it is the antiquity of the words that protects them, the veneer of respectability, of formality, that cloaks them from Ben's bitter memories.  _ You take me in so well. If you could see how you look right now. Such a sweet, pretty mouth. Do you want more? Can you take more? My fine, fine Major. My sweet, sweet boy. _

Ben's pressing the heel of his hand to his own erection, hips jerking of their own accord as he takes George all the way down to the root, so that he can feel the scratch of Ben's scruff on the skin of his inner thighs. But with his left hand he's still holding on to the back of George's legs, urging him on, urging him deeper.

George hesitates. This isn't something that they do, that they've ever really done. He takes what Ben gives him, always, doesn't really even feel the need to ask for more. But Ben is insistent, his eyes sharp and determined when they meet George's own, even as tears begin to gather in their corners. So George asks the question.

"Would you like me to fuck your mouth, Major? Is that what you want?"

It takes every last scrap of his willpower not to come when Ben melts into a moan, his tone  _ pleading _ even as he cannot properly articulate single syllable. So George gives him what he asks for.

He hardly knows if he will be able to stay on his feet, and controlling his quick, short thrusts takes all his concentration. There is none left over to keep himself from coming down Ben's throat all too quickly, and without warning.

Ben pulls away, his face a proper mess, and pitches forward, his hands going back to George's legs so he can steady himself. Thinking quickly, George pulls the cloak from his shoulders and spreads it on the carpet in front of the fireplace, crouching down and easing Ben onto his side, before following him onto the floor.

He's overwhelmed by the sudden, desperate need to kiss that perfect mouth, and urges Ben towards him.

"No, Geor-  _ sir, _ I'm--"

"Please, Benjamin. Please," he practically gasps, thumbing away a stray tear from Ben's temple, entranced.

Ben obliges him, and the kiss that follows, for all the incongruity of tasting his own release on Ben's tongue, is truly one for the history books. He moves onto his back, draws Ben to lie over him, and he remembers that Ben is still painfully hard. He pulls away from the kiss to reach a hand between their bodies, but Ben bats it away.

"Just stay still," he hisses, and George feels the insistent press of Ben's clothed hips against his own even as he dives back into the kiss. Ben picks up speed and rhythm, and George shifts himself so Ben has something to move against, his thigh pressed right between Ben's legs.

Ben's terse order, the sudden reversal of roles, the sense of being merely an object to be used for Ben to get himself off is enough to make George wonder if he might be able to find it within himself to go a second round. But then Ben pulls away from the kiss to draw a shallow breath, sighs out a " _ fuck…George"  _ and goes still.

They lie there as their pulses slowly return to normal. Ben slides off George's chest, flips over to face the far wall, and draws George's arm over his middle, so that they settle in to the natural curve of each others bodies.

"I didn't want -- your costume," he says, his breath still labored, "I don't want to ruin it."

"That's what dry cleaning is for," says George, as he pulls Ben in closer, rests his chin on the crown of Ben's head.

"I guess you're right," sighs Ben. "But, do you like them? The uniforms?"

"What a ridiculous question," mutters George.

* * *

It's too early for them to fall asleep properly. After Ben dozes for a few minutes, George urges them up and into bed, where he gets to spend a lazy half an hour licking Ben open until he comes on George's tongue after only a few strokes to his cock. After that, he lets George clean him up with a warm washcloth, too wrecked to make it to the shower.

"So, the uniforms…" George says after a few minutes, "are we going to have to return them?"

Ben laughs.

"After that? No fucking way."

George clears his throat pointedly, and Ben rolls his eyes.

"Alright. No fucking way,  _ sir." _

_ Finis. _  
  



End file.
